Page 2 of A Scottish Highland Hideaway

I blinked at my brother, confused.

“Has Declan had an accident?” asked Dad.

“No, not an accident,” managed Marcus in his familiar Scottish rumble. He was struggling to look at me. His dark brown floppy fringe lifted a little in the breeze.

“Then what?” I pushed. My tastefully manicured fingers gripped my bouquet tighter.

“He’s not coming,” said my mother. She had emerged out of the church and was hurrying towards me, immaculate in her aqua fitted suit and wide-brimmed hat.

I stared at her. “What are you talking about?”

From outside the church grounds, I could sense the press had caught wind of a story. A fresh volley of camera clicks went off, competing with the sound of excited chatter.

Mum reached up one hand and stroked my face. Her navy eyes expressed sadness and … was that pity?

Icy fingers tore at my heart. “What do you mean, he’s not coming? We’re about to get married.”

My parents, my brother and Jacob all swapped strained looks.

Mum slipped one arm around my waist. “Come on, darling. Let’s get you home.”

Chapter One

Fourteen months later

Oh no. Why was he looking across at me?

I attempted to conceal my face behind the thrusting arrangement of oriental lilies, white roses and alstroemeria I was pulling together for Mr McColl’s wife’s sixtieth birthday. I tried to reassure myself by keeping my fingers busy lacing the blooms in and around one another.

Once I’d finished this bouquet, I would turn my thoughts to how to make the next window themed display of my shop, Flower Power, feel special. It seemed like only yesterday that I’d removed the pumpkins, bats and broomsticks from the Halloween arrangement. Now, I was working towards transitioning from the ambers and russets currently in the window to the festive theme I’d been planning. I loved Christmas and as this would be my first one here in Heather Moore, I wanted to create winter window scenes with extra sparkle.

It would soon be upon us. It was mid-November already!

It was almost four o’clock now though, so perhaps I would make a start on that tomorrow when my two trainee florists, Amber and Rowan, were back.

I waited for a few seconds before risking another peek through the slim stems of the flowers I was arranging. The stranger was still there, lurking beside one of the shelves, from which dangled several of the heart-shaped door decorations I’d constructed from acorns, figs, pine cones, and tartan ribbon.

The man was sporting a large pair of dark sunglasses, despite the hailstorm that had raged just ten minutes ago. More appropriately, he also wore a chunky grey woolly hat and he’d swathed a paisley scarf up around the bottom half of his face. He kept jerking his head round, as if checking the door of my shop.

I refocused on the flower arrangement I was creating and breathed in its heady perfume. This was what I’d been hoping for: the chance to begin a new chapter of my life in which no one knew me.

I loved the colours and shapes of flowers and plants, their assorted scents and the feel of the petals against my fingertips. They were like solid, dependable friends, bringing light and joy into the every day.

I didn’t even mind the crazy early starts, when I had to jump in the van at five o’clock in the morning and head to the nearest flower market in Muir Port, which was a forty-five-minute drive away. The canvas stalls would flap in the breeze, sheltering tubs of flowers erupting in every shade and hue.

Under the slumbering tangerine sky, the smell of fresh coffee kept the wholesalers awake and the quiet buzz from car radios danced around the space. The contentment I experienced as I wandered around, selecting what I wanted to buy for Flower Power, was something I hadn’t felt for a long time.

Memories of Declan flickered before my eyes. What a humiliation my wedding day had been. The guests staring at me out of the church door, like I was a museum exhibit. The sharp pap and clap of the cameras, the journalists like eager bloodhounds, smelling a story. Oh, look! The society girl’s been dumped at the altar.

My insides twisted themselves up again into a fierce knot at the memory of it. Mum and Dad had escorted me back to Bannock House, while Marcus and Jacob had announced to the stunned guests that the wedding would not be going ahead and the reverend had dealt with everything else.

As if jilting me on our wedding day hadn’t been enough of a slap in the face, it transpired that the money I’d given Declan as an investment for his Making Music Foundation, a charity for underprivileged kids, had vanished with him. The police were still unable to track him down. He’d melted into the night with my heart and my money.

Our relationship had been one enormous lie from the start. His proclamations of love, the proposal, the “charity” – it had all been contrived like some sort of cold-hearted military operation.

The realisation that he’d been a conman, a mercenary bastard only after me for my money, still festered like an open wound.

I had been taken in by a pale-eyed, fair-haired, charming Irish Adonis. I’d let Declan Rooney play me for a fool. I was determined that would never happen again.